Friday, June 21, 2013


While looking through some old papers the other day, I found a poem I’d written on a piece of scrap paper nearly twenty years ago.

Snowfall  [Flickr page]

The memory is still vivid: I’d been sitting at a table in the cafeteria where I worked, next to a big wall of glass that looked out onto a pleasant Pacific Northwest landscape. Big wet snowflakes filled the air, a stunning array of outrageous white puffs slowly tumbling downward in unison. As I watched, taking it all in, I saw a fellow employee, dressed in his overcoat and carrying a briefcase, emerge from the building and look up.

Looking up at the Snow  [Flickr page]

The snowflakes tumble down lazily.

It’s plenty cold enough.

There is no hurry.

A man walks out the lobby door,

looks around, and his face lights up

with the eager anticipation of a child

at a snowy morning window.

But then

he casts a backward glance

at the watching office windows,

thinks better of himself,

and trudges off,

a businessman again.